You tell on yourself by the things you wear,
By the spirit in which you your burdens bear.
By the kind of things that make you laugh,
By the records you play on the phonograph.

You tell on yourself by the way you walk,
By the things of which you delight to talk.
By the manner in which you bear defeat,
By so simple a thing as how you eat.

By the books you choose from the well-filled shelf
In these ways and more, you tell on yourself.
So there is not a particle of sense,
In an effort to keep up false pretense.

By Edgar Guest